ontemporaries astonishing intelligence, went
forth. But the blow fell on no Italian with such tremendous force as
on Cavour.

There are natives of Italy who appear to be more cool, more
calculating, more completely masters of themselves, than the men of
any other nationality. Cavour was one of these. But there comes,
sooner or later, the assertion of southern blood, the explosion of
feeling the more violent because long contained, and the cool, quiet
Italian of yesterday is not to be recognised except by those who know
the race intimately well, and who know the volcano that underlies its
ice and snow as well as its luxuriant vegetation.

On Wednesday, the 6th of June, the French army was spread out in
battle array along the left bank of the Mincio, and everything led to
the supposition that a new and immediate battle was in contemplation.
The Piedmontese were engaged in making preparations to invest
Peschiera. Napoleon's headquarters were at Valleggio, those of the
King at Monzambano. By the evening a very few persons had picked up
the information that Napoleon had sent a messenger to Verona. Victor
Emmanuel knew nothing of it, nor did any of the French generals except
Marshal Vaillant, but such things leak out, and two or three
individuals were aware of the journey to Verona, and spent that night
in racking their brains as to what it might mean. Next day at eleven
o'clock General Fleury returned; the Austrian Emperor had accepted the
armistice. Further secrecy was impossible, and like lightning the news
flashed through the world.

Cavour rushed from Turin to Desenzano, where he arrived the day before
the final meeting between Napoleon and Francis Joseph. He waited for a
carnage in the little _cafe_ in the piazza; no one guessed who it was,
and conversation went on undisturbed: it was full of curses on the
French Emperor. Mazzini, someone said, was right; this is the way the
war was sure to end. When a shabby conveyance had at length been
found, the great statesman drove to Monzambano. There, of course, his
arrival did not escape notice, and all who saw him were horrified by
the change that had come over his face. Instead of the jovial, witty
smile, there was a look of frantic rage and desperation. What passed
between him and his Sovereign is partly a matter of conjecture; the
exact sense of the violent words into which his grief betrayed him is
lost, in spite of the categorical versions of the interview which have